


The Fifth Dog

by Sectionladvivi



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Awesome Pepper Potts, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gun Violence, Happy Hogan Is More Than A Chauffeur, Legos, Pepper Potts's Shoes, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Precious Peter Parker, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, animal injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sectionladvivi/pseuds/Sectionladvivi
Summary: Peter Parker can keep being Spider-Man a secret from his aunt, but what about a hundred pound Rottweiler?





	1. Spiderstagram!

_“Okay so, the thing is that it wasn’t totally my fault, and I’m not saying that like, ‘oh it’s not my fault’, you know, I mean I was there and I’m gonna take responsibility for my actions, but I can’t really think of anything that I could have done better, I mean I’m trying Mr. Stark but, like, yeah, if you’ve seen the video--what? No, Ned, I’m not gonna say ‘hi, Iron Man’. You’re not even supposed to be in here. What? …...no, Thor isn’t there! No, I’m not gonna ask, this is an official channel, Ned! You’re supposed to be covering for me with May. What? Lasagna? ….mushrooms? ……...okay, Mr. Stark I have to go, but I’ll call you back! Watch the video, I sent it to Happy, it’s kind of um sideways but you can just um, rotate it, Karen told me I could enhance it but there were like so many features and filters, it was like instagram times a thousand, which by the way could I have like, a Spiderstagram? Like the videos on youtube, but I could do selfies with birds and like upside down, play up the whole ‘friendly neighborhood’ thing- yeah, I’m coming, May! Okay, bye Mr. Stark! Watch the video!”_

Tony leaned back in his seat, pinched the bridge of his nose, and blew air forcefully out of his nose.

Pepper sat across from him, dressed for the gala (red dress, artistically loose curls, the works), legs crossed, her high heels perched on the seat beside her waiting for their time to shine. She raised an eyebrow.

“‘Karen’?”

“That’s what he named the little AI I plugged into the suit.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus. Spiderstagram?”

“He seems very,” Pepper searched for the polite version of a word. “Very keen.”

“He’s like a wall-crawling, web-shooting, crime-stopping, energizer bunny,” mumbled Tony into his palms. “God, just listening to him makes me feel old. Happy, what’s this video he’s talking about?”

“Haven’t seen it,” said Happy, eyes grimly on the road, clearly hoping he wouldn’t have to.

“What happened to you being my buffer? How did he get my actual number? Did _I_ give him my actual number?”

“You did,” confirmed Pepper, even as Happy said, “You did,” and even as Tony himself realized it and said, “Oh my god, I gave him my actual number.”

“After the thing with the guy with the weird fishbowl helmet?” reminded Pepper. “The one who did hypnosis, or magic tricks, or something like that. You told him you were very proud of him, and then you-”

“And then I gave him my number,” groaned Tony. He sat back again and slapped his seat. “That’s it. I give up drinking.”

“You also offered him champagne,” said Pepper, a smile tugging at her mouth. “But he said no. Said he had a Spanish test and he needed to be at one hundred percent for that. _Not_ that I would have let you give a fifteen year old champagne anyway.”

“He’s _still_ fifteen? I swear he gets younger every time I look at him.”

“Sixteen in August,” said Pepper, checking on her phone. “And I’m sure he’ll be heartbroken if you forget, so, car? I’m thinking something eco friendly. Is red or blue too on-the-nose with the suit, do you think?”

“Kid doesn’t need a car, he’s got that whole not a bird, not a plane thing going for him.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m pulling up this video. See what the hell he’s talking about. Spiderstagram…”

He pulled it up, spun it level, and pressed play.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”


	2. Five Large Whats?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spidey judges someone for using Tinder. And fights crime. He's a multi-tasker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to leave work 2 hrs early today bc i was only semi conscious from depression & my meds. im probably gonna go to bed by 7. im so empty inside.

The morning dew hadn’t finished forming on Mrs. Drefuss’s balcony hydrangeas before Peter Parker was up and at it.

“Crime doesn’t take a summer vacation,” he told himself in the mirror, mask halfway pulled down, mouth full of toothpaste, trying to be quiet so he didn’t wake May. “ _And neither does Spider-Man._ ” He flossed, stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth, and was out the window before 7.

By 10 AM, sitting on top of a billboard with nothing to show for his hours of _fwipp_ ing and swooping but a few pigeon selfies, he was starting to think that maybe crime slept in.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

Voicemail.

" _Please leave a message for_ : Happy, Hogan." 

“Hey Happy. It’s me. Peter, Parker, Spider-Man. I was just out working, you know, the job, getting a lot done but um, I’m just curious, are there like specific Avengers hours, like when there aren’t emergencies? Now that school’s out am I like, nine to five? Working nights? ‘Cause I can do whatever, you know, I’m flexible, I just want to make sure I’m um, following protocol. Ummmm. Yeah. Yeah cool, let just me know. Okay, thanks. It’s Peter. Bye.”

He hung up, dropped his phone hand to his thigh, and gave a heavy sigh. He looked at the increasingly busy streets below. Still crimefree.

“Hey Karen, you can connect to police radio, right?”

“Of course.”

“Anything interesting going on?”

“Someone is being pulled over on Clover Street,” said Karen. “Someone else is being cited for jaywalking on-”

He sighed. “Is there any like, _actual_ crime?”

“The police are in the process of raiding a drug den at-”

“Drug den!” His head shot up. “Okay, drugs, that’s a real crime. Can you plot me a course, get me there right away?”

“Of course, Peter.”

And away swung Spider-Man, with a renewed sense of purpose.

When he arrived the whole block was cordoned off. He found himself a nearby tree and zoomed in for a better look, and couldn't suppress an "Aw, man." It looked as if he had missed all the action. There were a number of sullen looking men in handcuffs sat down next to police cars, and with his vision zoomed in, he could see one officer swiping away on Tinder.

_Well, if that doesn’t say ‘we’re finished here’._

_....man, does he just swipe right on everyone?_

He sighed and put his back against the trunk. He was in the middle of saying, “Hey, Karen-” when something else caught his eye.

“Hey Karen, did the cops sweep that junkyard in the back? Does it look swept?”

“I’m not sure, Peter.”

He stood up on the branch, zoomed in closer, and yep. There was definitely something going on in the junky, chain-link-fenced-in backyard. That something was a man who definitely didn't look like a cop, mostly because of how he was trying to extricate himself from the inside of a large tire.

The guy was still trying to free himself when, “Really? A tire? I see at least three sheds back here. You couldn’t have picked a more practical hiding place?”

The man looked up at him, squinting through the sunlight in his eyes. “You’re- you’re that spider-freak!” His gun fell out as he tried to grab for it, and Peter casually scooted it out of reach with his foot.

“Words can hurt, you know,” he said. “Like your neck probably does right now. Boy, your chiropractor is going to have a field day.”

“At least I’m not going to need stitches,” snapped the man. “Enjoy your face transplant.”

“Okay, weird threat,” said Peter. “Just curious, how are you going to cut off my face from inside the tire? I’m honestly asking.”

“I think he’s referring to the five large guard dogs in the yard with you,” suggested Karen.

“Five large whats?!” He spun around and there were, sure enough, five large guard dogs coming his way, all of whom probably weighed more than he did. “Karen why didn’t you tell me that there were five large guard dogs?!”

“I thought you knew! You were zoomed in.”

He threw up a hand to websling to the top of the nearest shack, but the man in the tire had freed himself enough to reach out and grab his ankle, yanking him off his feet. Peter faceplanted into junkyard dirt. He rolled over to catch a flash of big, wet teeth. In quick succession, _bam bam bam_ , he web-glued three canine mouths together, kicked off the man’s hand, and spun up and off the ground.

The fourth dog leapt to slam into his chest, teeth clicking together inches from his mask and bouncing him off the hood of a wrecked car and onto the ground. He managed to grapple with its slobbering, snarling face for a second before he sprang up, double-barreling the dog off of him and halfway across the yard. _Oops._

He kip-upped off the ground and sprang on top of the car. “Karen, where’s the fifth dog? Oh, crap.”

The man had freed himself from the tire and was taking off across the yard towards the gate.

_Crap crap crap!_

There were no good swinging points from Point A to Point Criminal, so he had to sprint for it.

“Karen, tell me when that fifth dog shows up!”

Mid-sprint, the back doors of the building burst open, and he screeched to a halt and spun to look. Another non-cop had busted out of the building with three cops in pursuit. The man was waving a gun wildly. The cops had all pulled their sidearms and stood ready to fire. “Drop the weapon!” one barked. “This is your last chance.”

Peter spun back after the man he had been chasing, then around at the new threat, then back again, and it was that split second of hesitation that cost him.

“There is the fifth dog,” said Karen pleasantly.

It emerged from the left, a giant black streak heading in a dead sprint - not for Peter, but for the gunman. It collided with the man’s pantleg with careening enthusiasm, throwing him halfway to the ground. Its stub tail wagged furiously. The man fired a single, accidental shot.

“Wait, wait!” shouted Peter, one hand up, other web-shooter extended, his vision zoomed in on three fingers tightening on three triggers.

Too late.

They fired on the man in one volley, in a deafening cascade of shots, and the gunman went down in a sputter of limbs and flying gun. The dog went down, too. Peter threw up his arms defensively, not even in range, not even in the target, but taking a nearly physical, sickening punch to the gut.

_I could have stopped that._

He didn’t have time to think it. With one last agony of _I could have stopped-_ he was away, dashing into the waking summer suburbs with gunfire still ringing in his ears.

The cops cuffed the gunman after he had gone. One of them squinted into the distance, at the open junkyard gates, as he holstered his weapon. “Was that fucking Spider-Man?”

“Hey!” said another. “Look, I’ve got a match. 'Tina Tequila'? I think that’s supposed to be funny.”

“She cute?”

“Eh, kinda.”

“Hey,” said the last one, still kneeling next to the cuffed man. “Where did that dog go?”


	3. Absolutely not.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is saddled with a fuzzy, hundred pound dilemma.

When Peter caught up to his bad guy, dangled him from and then stuck him to a tree, and fired off a few more quips about chiropractors, he did so only half-heartedly. He was still stuck back in the junkyard. Watching that man go down. Still thinking,

_I could have stopped that._

But how _could_ he have? How was he supposed to know that there was someone else inside the house? He might not have even _been_ there, if he had been three seconds faster after the first man, or if he had known about the dogs. What was he supposed to have done. His brain defaulted to _What would Iron Man have done?_

Seen it coming, probably. Had like ten drones in the house or something. Iron Man never would have even _been_ there. He would have somehow taken care of it all the way from Hong Kong and Mr. Tinder-Swiping Police-Man would never have had to put his phone down.

“Would you like me to alert law enforcement to this location?”

“Yeah, thanks Karen.”

Dispirited, he sat in a nearby tree, arms around his knees, and he waited to make sure the police picked the guy up. They did. As they were driving away, sirens doodling more softly into the distance, he checked his watch. It was noon. Did crime take a lunch break? He wondered.

“There is the fifth dog,” said Karen.

“Huh?” Peter stood up on his tree branch, and it bounced minutely under his weight. “What dog?”

“I thought you wanted me to tell you where the dogs were.”

“Yeah but- aren’t they all back at the junkyard, drug den thing?”

“No. This one is lying in the street south of you.”

“In the street?”

“I believe it was attempting to pursue you when it was struck by the car.”

“Struck by a- Karen, which street?!”

She directed him, and he sprang off the branch and away. He swung onto a roof overlooking the street to find it empty except for a large, still lump that was the fifth dog. "Aw, man..." _They didn’t even stop._ Peter looked both ways before swinging carefully down next to it.

It was a rottweiler or something- whatever kind of dog was big and black with the brown spots and the bear ears. It looked beat up by more than just a car. It had old scars on it too. There was fresh blood on its nostrils. That couldn't be a good sign. And then the nostrils flared.

 _It's still alive!_ he realized.

Peter came closer at a slow creep, trying not to get bit and trying not to scare the dog at the same time. He knelt near its head where it could see him. “Hey.” He spoke softly. It didn’t move, just blinked its enigmatically black eyes. “Hey, dog. You gonna bite me? You’re not, right?” He slowly reached his hand out to the bearlike nose, ready to yank it away if he had to, giving the dog a chance to smell him. “You’ve heard of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, right? Maybe you’ve seen him on YouTube? Well, that’s me. Very friendly. Very neighborly.” He kept his voice soft. “If you promise not to bite me, I promise to buy you a sandwich later. Deal? You like sandwiches? I know the best place.” In the same soft voice he asked, “Hey Karen, where’s the closest emergency vet?”

“There are three bullet wounds,” observed Karen. “And probably multiple internal injuries from being struck by-”

“Karen! Can you please just get me an address?”

-

Spider-Man sat at the end of a row of chairs, and to his right were two people holding cat carriers, an old guy with a parakeet in a cage, and some dude in a postal uniform holding the leash of the ugliest bulldog Peter had ever seen.

He sat with his hands folded politely in his costumed lap.

A voice called from the front desk. “Mr. ……” There was a long silence. “Mr. Spider-Man?”

He popped up from his seat to go lean on the desk, then awkwardly adjusted himself to stand hands on hips, then awkwardly adjusted himself with arms crossed. “Yes, that’s me,” he said, trying to sound less fifteen. “Spider-Man.”

The woman in the reception desk looked him over, was utterly unimpressed, and asked flatly, “You brought in the rottweiler?” She checked the chart again. “‘Bruiser’?”

“Uh, yep. That’s him.”

“Well, _she_ is coming out of surgery." She continued to judge him with her eyes. "Dr. Georges would like to speak to you about your options. Would you follow me to the back, please?”

Dr. Georges was a very friendly black woman with a pink streak in her braids, who didn’t seemed at all deterred by the fact that she was holding a conversation with a teenage boy ( _Please let me at least pass for eighteen._ ) in a costume. She had a proper office, with a desk and a plant on it, and some pictures drawn in crayon by a kid. The plant was a cactus.

She waved him into a chair, and he sat down, once again, with his hands folded in his lap. “Good news first, as usual,” she said. “The surgery was very successful. You have a very lucky dog there. The bullets missed all major organs and arteries, and she had only one moderate break and some contusions from the car. She'll pull through.”

“Great!” he said, his brief moment elation chased quickly by concern. “Wait, so you said good news first. That means there’s bad news, right? What’s the bad news?”

Dr. Georges scrutinized him so thoroughly that he felt self conscious even through the mask. He cleared his throat and did the awkward hands-on-hips-then-arms-crossed thing again.

“Is this your dog?” she asked.

“Uhh,” he said. "Yes?"

She flipped through the pages on the clipboard. “‘Bruiser’ shows signs of long term abuse and neglect. Her collar had been on for so long it was starting to grow into her neck. She has numerous and varied scars, she is missing a toe, and she has cigarette burns on-”

“Cigarette burns?” he repeated, unable to keep the shock (or the pubescent crack) out of his voice.

She put down the file and raised her eyebrows. “I’m assuming this is not the dog of the same Spider-Man who rescued a client’s maltipoo from a hawk,” she said. “So the question is, whose dog is this, and are they going to face legal repercussions for their actions?”

He remembered the men and their arrest flintily. “They’re taken care of,” he said.

She leaned back in her chair. “Good,” she said. “Final question is, what happens with this dog? Are you planning on taking her back to your Spider-Lair, having a Spider-Dog?” A smile tugged at the side of her mouth. “If so, we’ll have to get her up to date on shots, get her a heartworm preventative, take care of licensing-”

“Uh, jeez,” he said, rubbing his head. “Look, I can’t- I can’t just get a dog. I mean I don’t- I just can’t. Don’t you guys have like, dog rescues…?”

She was already mutely shaking her head. “I’ll be frank with you, ah, Spider-Man. There are a lot of cute dogs who are not riddled with gunshots, that get put down every day because there aren’t enough homes. I’m not optimistic about ‘Bruiser’s’-” And she said the name very drily. “-chances of finding a home. Especially if she doesn’t pass the temperament tests. We haven’t seen her true colors. Have you? Can you give us an estimate of her temperament? Do you know if she has a bite history?”

“Um.” He remembered how enthusiastically she had plowed the guy’s leg out from under him.

Just as vividly, he remembered the volley of gunfire, and saw the man going down. His hands curled into fists.

“Listen,” he said, voice muted. “I can’t just let her die.” He looked down at the desk. “Not without giving her a chance.”

Dr. Georges tapped her pen a few times on the table, thinking, looking at him. “We can release her to you after a few days to monitor her condition,” she said. “As far as the licensing goes, I’m not sure ‘Spider-Man’ is going to cut it.”

“I can figure something out,” he said quietly, thinking rapidly. _Happy might - no he won’t - but maybe Ned? He could- no, that wouldn’t work-_ He started to get up, then quickly sat back down. “Um. About the bill. Like I said at the front desk-”

Dr. Georges waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. There’s just one thing you can do.” She rifled in her desk and pulled out a child’s drawing, depicting Spider-Man catching either a bus or a very large caterpillar.

“My daughter’s a fan,” she said.

One photo with a veterinarian and autographed child’s drawing later, Peter was back up on his billboard eating a bag of chips and leaving Happy Hogan a rapid and crunch-punctuated voicemail.

“Okay so I was helping out at this drug thing earlier, this guy was getting away but I caught him - I’ll send you the video - but also uh, I’ve got- well, I found a dog, and she’s really beat up and at the vet right now, and they said she’ll get put down if she goes to the shelter and like, I know I can’t compromise my secret identity and there’s a whole legal licensing thing and also May would _kill_ me if I brought a dog home, but I was also thinking, you don’t have like a secret identity or anything, so, maybe, you could take the dog...? Just for like a day or two! Just long enough for me to figure something out. I’ll figure it out, I will, I just have to um… well May is going out of town on Friday so… I’ll figure it out is all, so don’t worry about it. Yeah. Okay. I have to get to dinner, but I’ll call you back and uh leave a message for Mr. Stark- I can do that now right, since he gave me his number? Right? That's okay? Okay. Anyway, call me back. It’s Peter. Thanks. Bye.”

-

“Absolutely not,” said Happy.

“Oh,” said Tony, with a look of undisguised delight. “Absolutely yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my brain is better now! hail modern medicine


	4. Should I get the bear spray?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great things are happening in the world of Lego sets. Happy is not happy.

They were parked in front of the event, all three of them leaning over the phone, Pepper holding her shoes in one hand and wearing a resigned expression, Happy stone-faced in the I’m-passing-a-kidney-stone-and-don’t-want-anyone-to-know-it way, and Tony looking as though Christmas had come early.

“I don’t like dogs,” said Happy. “You know that specifically Tony, you know that I-”

“Oh come on, Happy, weren’t we just talking about birthday presents? What's a more classic present than a puppy?”

“Okay fine, get him a puppy. A nice little puppy. Not a- a junkyard dog that _I_ have to keep in my apartment, that I just had cleaned!”

“Hmm, okay, interesting thought. Pepper, question, does Happy work for me?”

“Oh, come on Tony. Pepper, really? Don’t nod. Don’t encourage him.”

“It’s weird because- I thought, when people worked for other people, that they were supposed to do, what they were asked to do. Pepper, am I wrong?”

She was putting on her heels. “I,” she said. “Am going to the gala. With or without a date, or a chauffeur. You two can squabble as much as you like, but I think we all know how this is going to turn out.”

“Yeah, I think we really do,” said Tony, and hastily popped out of his door to go around the car to open Pepper’s. He gallantly helped her out, then, ignoring the flashing of cameras, leaned back in. “Do the right thing, Happy,” he said, pointing at him. “You know you don’t want the blood of that poor puppy dog on your conscience.”

-

“So was there like, blood everywhere?”

“I don’t know, Ned, I was chasing the other guy.”

“But you watched other guys get shot before, right? What’s it like?”

“I don’t know. Loud?”

“.....you ever get blood on your suit?”

“Um. Well, once, when I was shaving.”

“Come on Peter, you don’t have to shave, you have like, one chin hair.”

“Whatever, it’s good to practice.”

“You should ask Iron Man how to shave. His beard always looks cool.”

They were camped out in May’s living room, which had the extra space they needed to work on their latest Lego set: the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier. Two thousand nine hundred and ninety six pieces. With May out of town they had the whole space to monopolize. They had set a timer to see if they could beat their previous completion time record.

Aunt May had left behind approximately seven weeks worth of tupperware meals, pizza money, bear spray, and instructions to blind the holy hell out of any intruders and then go for the fire escape.

“And the emergency wind up flashlights are in the bottom drawer next to the fridge, with the first aid kit-”

“I’ll be fine, May, seriously.”

“And remember that Mr. Guardiola down the hall has a gun. If you see or hear anything suspicious, you go get him, you understand?”

“Okay, May,” he had said obediently, because there was no tactful way to tell her that their place was probably the best safest in the building.

There was a period of long silence, punctuated only by the click of Lego blocks being stuck into place. “What are you gonna do if Happy and Mr. Stark don’t get back to you?” asked Ned eventually.

“I don’t know.” Peter sighed. He flopped down and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling, temporarily abandoning their project. “Sneak in and steal it I guess?”

“Then what? Keep it here?” Ned gestured around the room. “Does this building even allow dogs? Also, May would kill you. Also, what if it’s a crazy dog? What if it has rabies? What if the _dog_ kills you?”

“I’m Spider-Man,” scoffed Peter at the ceiling. “I pick up cars and fight guys with guns like all the time.”

“You only picked up a car one time.”

“Well yeah, but it was awesome.”

Another moment of silence. Peter was picking out teeny cracks in the ceiling plaster with his eyes, trying to problem solve, then,

“Dude, what if it’s radioactive too, and you get _dog_ powers?”

He rolled back over onto his side to stare at Ned. “When powers do dogs even have?”

Ned shrugged. “Sense of smell?”

There was a loud bang at the door. Two loud, angry bangs. They looked at each other.

“Should I get the bear spray?” whispered Ned.

“Come on, Ned,” said Peter, exasperated. He got up, springing from clear spot to spot across the landscape of legos, to reach and open the door.

He barely had the chance to open his mouth before Happy Hogan shoved a large box into his hands. “Your elevator is out," he said, looking more than characteristically aggravated, and red in the face. "That’s dog bowls, brushes, toys, assorted dog shit. "Downstairs I’ve got a crate, and like five thirty pound bags of dog food. You can carry that up those seven flights. You’ve got spider strength, you deal with that. That’s your job. Okay?”

“But- what-” Peter tried to look at him over the giant box. “Where’s the dog?”

-

The nighttime receptionist was in the middle of a call when a man stood before the front desk and tapped his knuckles on it. She held up her finger in the universal ‘wait your damn turn’ gesture and continued her phone call. “How much? …and for how long? ...okay, if she doesn’t pass it in her stool within twenty-four hours, bring her in and we’ll have a look.”

She put down the phone, looked up, and went blank before she could reach, “How may I help you?”

“Hi,” said Tony Stark (Iron Man, billionaire, Avenger), leaning on the counter tucking his sunglasses into his jacket pocket. “Sorry to interrupt the ah, stool situation- I’m here to pick up an associate. Full of bullet holes. Lots of teeth. Goes by the name of ‘Spider-Dog’?”


	5. The Whole Old Yeller Thing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned meets one of his heroes. Happy prays for death.

Tony Stark, still waiting at the counter, had clasped his fingers together like a man trying very hard not to drum obnoxiously on said counter. “I know you guys are probably up to your ears in sprained paws, and broken tails, and so on, but,” he stressed the word. “This is a _little_ time sensitive. If you don’t mind, could we...?” He gestured vaguely but with much purpose at their filing system.

“I, um.” The receptionist had started scrabbling with the papers on her desk, looking for something in particular, not finding it and becoming more flustered. She said the words she remembered to say. “There is a- waiting period mandated by the county on possible abuse cases...”

“I think you’ll find that _our_ jurisdiction, has jurisdiction over this jurisdiction. Our jurisdiction being Avengers jurisdiction. She’s an Avenger, actually. New recruit. She, ah, brings Vision his inhaler. Could we speed this up maybe, however possible, if possible?” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Got a fiancé waiting in the car. Long day, you know? Her feet hurt. High heels.” Again, he gestured vaguely, as if inventing a new sign language sign for 'high heels' in midair.

“I’ll get ahold of Dr. Georges,” she said, as shell-shocked as a 24/7 emergency vet receptionist could get, and took her leave. Or fled, really.

“Thank you!” he called after her.

-

Peter had lost count of how many times he’d had to whisper, “Ned, be cool,” in the back of the car.

“So this is where Iron Man puts his drinks?” asked Ned, pointing out the cupholders.

“Yeah, I guess, if he has-”

“No drinks in the car,” barked Happy, looking in the rearview. “Where did you say you lived again?” He had agreed to drop off Ned ‘on the way’, because it took too much out of him to contest the exuberance of one teenager, let alone two.

Now Ned gave Peter the most pleading eyes in the world, clasped his hands together entreatingly, and mouthed ‘please please please please’.

“Um, actually…” Peter leaned towards the divider. “Ned actually, kind of lives on the other side of the vet place... Couldn’t he come, and uh, meet Mr. Stark? Since it’s on the way? I mean, the vet is on the way? That way you don’t have to circle back and-”

“Got, to, be, shitting me,” muttered Happy, pressing a flashing button on his dash. “Kids en route, Tony. _Kids,_ plural. Peter’s friend is here. Feel like signing autographs?”

“‘Friend’?” repeated Tony, through the phone. “Is this true, Mr. Parker? Do you have a friend?”

“Tony.” Pepper’s exasperated voice, in the background. “Don’t be rude.”

“Rude? What about that was rude? I just thought, he’s such a competent Spider-Man, how does he make time for friends? Isn’t that, really, a kind of compliment-”

“Okay, I’m bringing them both.” Happy cut him off. “See you in five.”

“Wow,” said Ned, enthralled, as Happy ended the call. “That was actually _Iron Man_. And- was that Pepper Potts? Have you met her? Is she nice?”

“Uh, well, yeah, we met once. Kinda. After that weird guy with the helmet. She seemed nice. She said she liked my tie.”

“Do you get to be in the wedding? Dude- what if you got to be best man, for Iron Man?”

“Ned, how am I going to be best man with a secret identity? Put a tuxedo on over the suit?”

“I don’t know, dude, it could be a private ceremony."

“Jesus H Christ,” said Happy under his breath.

Ned leaned over towards Peter. “Hey,” he whispered. “Why do they call him Happy?”

They pulled up to the emergency vet with an abrupt, snapping halt. Happy twisted around to face them. “Stay in the car,” he said, enunciating each word as if it were a complete sentence. Then he got out and slammed the door shut behind him.

Ned and Peter swapped glances, and in unison plastered themselves against the window.

“Is that the dog?” asked Ned, squinting through the tinted glass. And then, “Is that _Iron Man_?”

Tony Stark was standing thumb-in-pockets underneath the 24/7 EMERGENCY VET neon sign, next to a sizable plastic dog crate. Happy approached and immediately began to gesticulate. Whatever conversation they were having went on for a good minute. Then Happy gave his usual why-God gesture of surrender, grabbed the crate, and proceeded to half-drag, half-carry it towards the back of the car.

Tony Stark slid into the front passenger seat.

“Mr. Parker,” he said, leaning over the divider. “A pleasure, as always. Although it _is_ a bit past your bedtime. And this is- Ned, is it? Hi Ned. Tony.” He introduced himself, totally unnecessarily, shaking Ned’s limp hand and not acknowledging his dumbstruck expression. “So.” He turned back to Peter. “We have your little- well, your gigantic - friend all packed away. She’s doped up, has a cast, and is wearing one of those cone things, so she probably can’t mutilate you right away, but remain ever-cautious. If she wakes up with a hankering for junior superhero flesh, just give us a call and we’ll, you know, the whole Old Yeller thing.” Then, seeing the look on Peter’s face, “Or! We’ll do something totally different. We’ll figure it out. Improvise. Like we always do. Sound good?”

“Um,” he swallowed. “Mr. Stark, thank you so much for coming out, but May’s going to be back soon and I can’t-”

Tony was already waving off his concerns. “What’d I just say? We’ll improvise. Give you a cane and call it a service dog. We’ll deal with it. We'll just deal with it not _now_ , because I have better places to be, not that I get to go to any of them. God, I would rather fight ten Ultrons than plan a wedding. And I’m not even actually planning this one. Start thinking about your plus-one now, Spider-Man.” Tony clasped his shoulder in that awkward, half-comradely, half-fatherly way. Then he pointed at Ned, and gave him a single solemn finger-gun of farewell. “Ned.”

Tony popped out of the car as quickly as he had first popped into it, door slamming shut before Peter had the chance to say good-bye, let alone voice any more objections. Which was probably the point. Peter slumped back into his seat with the mill of problems, possible solutions, dismissed solutions, and predicted disaster running once more in his head.

“Can I be your plus-one?” asked Ned immediately.

“Ned, no!”


	6. Okay, Spider-Man.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter almost steps on a lego. I'll take some of whatever the dog is having.

Happy rolled up the divider for the rest of the drive to drop off Ned, leaving Peter to fend off his million questions (“What if an alien shows up during the wedding? Is he just gonna wear a suit, _under_ the suit?”) while he winced at every bump of the car and worried ceaselessly about whether the back of the car had proper ventilation.

Finally they dropped off Ned. Peter hurried him out with a reassurance that yes, they were going to finish the Helicarrier soon, he would text him.

Peter was silent for the rest of the ride home. About halfway there, Happy rolled the partition back down, and glanced back at him in the rearview. He didn’t say anything. They rode in silence until they arrived back at Peter’s place and the two of them went to retrieve the kennel.

Happy lifted open the back, and they both looked in at the crate, which was solid with a metal grille in front. Peter couldn’t see anything of the dog but the shiny black nose and a hint of those two glinting, dark eyes.

“I don’t need help Happy, I can get her up the stairs myself-”

“This doesn’t have to be your problem, you know,” interrupted Happy. “Pepper could find a no-kill shelter specializing in dogs like these in three minutes. Tony doesn’t know this, but there _are_ ways of building character that don’t require risk to life and limb.”

It felt like the most words Happy had ever said to him in one go, and for a moment Peter had no idea how to respond. Happy, hand on the roof of the car, looked as annoyed by his benevolence as Peter was surprised by it.

“It’s okay, I can totally handle it Happy, I-”

“That’s not the point,” said Happy. “I know what you can handle, and it’s a lot. But it doesn’t have to be everything, okay? This doesn’t have to be your responsibility. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Peter didn't say _‘It’s okay, Happy, I deal with way more dangerous things all the time.’_ or _‘I’m super responsible, I got straight A’s last semester and I took down that glass bowl guy.’_ because Happy knew that. Happy was saying something else. Something that wasn’t wholly about the dog.

Instead he said quietly, “But it _is_ my responsibility.”

He half expected Happy to be pissed, but instead he sighed, and might have actually smiled a little bit, just around the eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Sure you don’t want a hand?”

“No it’s good, I’m good, thanks Happy,” said Peter, glancing both ways down the street before hefting the crate as if it were a cat carrier. “Thanks. Really. Thank you.”

Happy grimaced at his sincerity and slammed the trunk shut. “Don’t let that thing eat any cats,” he called after Peter going up the stairs, then shook his head, turned, and walked back around to the driver’s seat.

-

With the elevator out Peter had to tote the dog carrier up all seven flights. The weight was no problem; the problem was his neighbors, some of them light sleepers, who might run into him in the stairwell or the hall. He could only imagine their faces if they saw May Parker’s frail nephew balancing a giant, occupied dog carrier on top of his head. He wished he had been able to just web-zipline from across the street, but well, that was a whole other can of worms. He was pretty sure the crate wouldn’t fit through his window.

Peter made his way successfully to his door. Glancing quickly left and right, he hefted the crate one-handed above his head as he fumbled for his keys. He let himself silently, discretely into the apartment.

Only a twinge of spider-sense stopped him from stepping directly on a lego.

In a true feat of spider skills, he pivoted, foot in the air, in the dark, crate still held up on his hand flat like carrying a pizza box, and set his foot down in a safe place.

Peter flicked on the light. It was only thing, gazing around the living room, that it occurred to him that he didn’t really have a good place to put the dog. _Not_ Aunt May’s room. The bathroom, maybe? But she just had the wallpaper redone…

There was a small sound from the crate, a kind of muted ‘hmphh’.

Out of the blue, quietly, he thought that Mr. Stark hadn’t done him much of a favor and what was he going to do with this dog?- but he immediately squashed that thought. Because if he could stop a car, if he could take down an alien weapons ring, if he could beat that weird guy with the fishbowl thing on his head, if he was _Spider-Man_ , he could handle a little dog.

Well, a big one.

His room would have to do. May always complained about the mess anyway.

Peter put the crate down in a corner, right next to his desk, and flicked on the bedroom light, illuminating posters and half forgotten projects. He closed the door. He went to the crate, his hypersensitive fingers alighting on the clasps to open it. He waited for the sound of a low growl. Nothing.

“Okay, Spider-Man,” he said under his breath, almost subconsciously.

He opened the crate door and quickly stepped back.

He didn’t know what he had expected, but whatever it was, absolutely none of it happened. There was no movement from inside the crate. Not even a canine nose poking out.

After a moment of internal debate, he got down on his hands and knees to look into the crate.

A thoroughly morose dog looked back at him. Her chin was resting on her paws, which were enormous. She looked at him but didn’t move. She had the slightly glazed over eyes of a seriously doped up dog. Well, the vet had said she would be drowsy from the medication.

Speaking of.

Remembering the bundle of papers and bag of medicine that he’d come home with, he grabbed them from where he had discarded them on his desk began flipping rapidly through. He didn’t know what most of it meant, but winced when he saw the figure on the bottom of the bill, right next to the doctor’s scrawl of _waived_. Mr. Stark probably would have taken care of that, too, but jeez.

“You are one expensive dog,” he said into the crate. Her ears moved slightly, but otherwise she did exactly nothing. “And kind of boring,” he said under his breath.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, and slightly underwhelmed, he put aside the papers and put his back to his bedroom door. He slid down to the ground to sit across the room from the dog. They looked each other.

“Hi,” he said. “Remember me? Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?”

She shifted her head slightly, moving her jowls to the other paw, and gave him a somber look.

“I know, I know, you’re probably like ‘What? But that guy was wearing a suit?’ But it’s me, I promise. Remember I said I’d get you a sandwich? Only the real Spider-Man would know that.”

The dog blew out her nose.

“That’s okay,” he said, into the silence. “I’m not a big talker. either. Well, except when I’m taking out the bad guys. It’s like- okay, so I don’t have that many friends at school. I don’t have a lot of people to talk to. So, when I’m in the suit, it just kind of all comes out, you know? It’s probably a good thing. It's gotta go somewhere. It's like, an outlet. You know what I mean?”

She blinked.

“Yeah, you know what I mean,” he said softly. She had a really soft looking face. And she looked so tired- not just tired from being on drugs, and being hit by a car, and from being shot. _Wow, that is a lot to happen to a dog in twenty-four hours._ But she looked _life_ -tired. Like he sometimes felt. Like he sometimes felt _a lot_.

“Okay,” he decided, getting up off the floor. She didn't move. “I’m gonna get you some water.”

He left the dog alone in his room and picked out some old tupperware May wouldn’t miss. He came back with his offering and found that the dog had ventured out of her kennel. She was delicately sniffing his bedspread. She looked at him, crinkled her doggie brows, and peed on the floor.

_Yeah,_ he thought. _That seems about right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so motherfuckers guess what. just a few days ago i had to take my dog to the emergency vet because she ate an entire bobcat skull and some deadly nightshade leaves. why do I have those in my room? none of your business. point is: this story is predictive, and cursed


	7. The ol' black tar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Housebreaking is hard. Also, Pete still hasn't cleaned up those legos.

“No, Ned, you can’t come over and see the dog, I don’t know if she’s, you know, vicious or not yet… Because she’s on a lot of pain medication. She got shot and hit by a car, Ned, they sent home enough, uh-” He turned the bottle around. “-tramadol to knock out a horse. Well, probably. I don’t know that much about horses but- no, we can finish the Helicarrier later, Ned, I’m sorry but I’ve got this dog to take care of- Uh, hang on a second, I have another call.”

“Is it Iron Man?” asked Ned, sounded excited, and then, apprehensively. “Is it Aunt May?”

“I’ll call you back, okay?”

Peter, laying flat with his head dangling off the side of the bed to watch the dog (who was drooling on her blanket pile in the corner), hesitated a second before taking the call.

“Mr. Parker,” said Mr. Stark, before he could even say ‘hello?’. “How’s the face? Not bit off, I hope.”

“Uh, no, it’s all good over here Mr. Stark. She’s on a lot of drugs so-”

“Which ones? Meloxicam? Fentanyl? Oxy? The ol’ black tar?”

“I um… she’s drooling a lot?”

“So,” said Mr. Stark. “I get you a dog, and within twenty-four hours you’ve already got her hooked on hard drugs? Pretty disappointing performance as a pet parent, Mr. Parker. Huh, lil word twister there. I’ve gotta say I’m disappointed- Hey! Don’t take my-”

There were scuffling sounds, and an entirely different voice came over the phone.

“Hello, Peter?”

He sat straight up in bed with the sudden inexplicable urge to fix his hair. “Oh hey, hi! Pe- uh, Miss Pep- Miss Potts? Miss Pepper?”

“Just Pepper,” she said, sounding both patient and exasperated (hopefully more with Mr. Stark than him) all at once, as she often did. “How’s Bruiser doing? Are we sticking with Bruiser?”

“Oh. I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought about it.” He rolled over onto his stomach to contemplate the dog in the corner again. She was either squinting at him or her eyelids had gone totally lax from the medication. He could see a little rim of white underneath. “I was thinking something nice, like Sophie, or Bonnie, or maybe like Ursula because she kind of looks like a bear, and the scientific name is Ursus-”

“But she’s doing okay?” interrupted Pepper gently.

“Oh. Yeah. She’s fine, thanks, Miss Po- Pe- Pepper.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “And don’t you dare spend a dime on her. Send the bill straight to Tony, he’s footing the whole thing.”

“Ask him if he wants one of those collars with the spike, or with rhinestones,” Peter heard Mr. Stark saying in the background.

Also in the background, muffled as though she were poorly covering the phone, he heard Pepper asking, “Maybe you want to try out a shock collar?”

“Kinky. Maybe save it for when you’re not on the phone with a fifteen-year-old, though?”

“Sorry about that,” said Pepper, returning to the phone.

“I’m almost sixteen,” said Peter mutely.

She sighed. He could see her pinching the bridge of her nose as Aunt May often did, like when he forgot to clean his room, or left dirty dishes on the table. “He did call you for a reason,” she said.

“Yeah, I did,” said Mr. Stark, and then he was speaking directly into the phone once more. “So. You’ve got a dog. All plugged up with bullet holes, hopped up on a lot of drugs. Big responsibility. I know you’ve suddenly got a lot of free time, what with school being out, or, something, but I wanted to make sure you’re prepared to juggle apprehending jaywalkers with being a dog dad.” His tone shifted to that too-genuine-to-be-genuine voice. “You know we need you out there, Underoos. The street won’t be as safe if you’re busy picking up doggy doo-doo. You get what I’m getting at?”

“Yes. Yes, sir. I completely understand, Mr. Stark. I will definitely stay on top of things, I promise I’ll-”

“Great. You do that and, well, you heard Pepper. Blank check situation. I’ll hook your pupper up with all the doggie drugs she could ever need.”

“Great, thank you so much Mr. Stark, um, just one thing is that Aunt May is going to be home by the end of the week and I don’t know-”

“-and I’ll have Happy take you two collar shopping,” finished Mr. Stark, not listening. “You think about those rhinestones.”

And he ended the call.

Peter stared at his phone, then at the dog. Prompted maybe by the silence, she lifted her head and they regarded each other from across the room.

So far, she had done nothing but puke, eat a bit, drink like she had been starved of water for weeks, puke up water, and wander back and forth between the pile of blankets and the crate. She seemed to feel safe in there. When he got up too fast or closed a door too loudly, she flinched, and went into her crate and stayed there. It was sad, and he was angry, but what was he supposed to do? He couldn't undo what had happened to her. He couldn't even get her to stop peeing in the apartment.

Getting her out to go to the bathroom was an odyssey of carefully looping the slip leash around her bandaged neck, sneaking the staggering, drunk-looking dog down the stairs or the elevator, finding the right spot around the corner, and waiting with a poop bag. And waiting. And waiting.

Having researched dog ownership for about two days straight, he knew that dogs that lived outside didn’t know how to not pee inside, so you had to teach them with repetition and lots of positive reinforcement. You had to take them outside ( _all the time_ ) every two hours or so, especially after they had food and water, and praise them when they did their business outside.

It wasn’t working. And it was driving him nuts.

Like- it wasn’t rocket science. Millions of people had dogs! Mrs. Candace who lived down the hall had dementia (bigtime) and she still managed to have a shitzu. Why couldn’t he get it right?

Going on patrol was a nightmare. If he had thought it was hard juggling school and being Spider-Man, having a dog and being Spider-Man was like, ten times more complicated. He went in shifts of one hour at a time. An hour on patrol, then back to check on the dog and take her outside. Back to patrol. Back to the dog. Back to patrol.

When he slept, it was in the same one hour shifts, setting his alarm so he could get up and take the dog out again, or clean up her mess.

It was exhausting.

“Wow,” said Happy. “You look like crap.”

Happy had come after all (was he really there to take them collar shopping?) and he was standing in the doorway holding two cups, looking at him. Eyebrows raised. It took Peter a minute to realize he was wearing the suit, and pajama pants, and a sock on one foot. Over the suit.

“Um,” he said, pulling off the sock, balling it up, and flinging it away in one spider-swift motion, as if it had never been there. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”

“It’s ten in the morning,” said Happy. “Why is your floor still covered in legos? You know she could eat that, right?”

He let Happy inside, pretending he wasn’t self conscious about the legos, or the pajamas, and crossed his arms self-consciously over his chest. “So uh, were we going to…?”

“Going to what? Here, coffee.” He put a styrofoam cup on the counter. “Do you drink coffee? What age do you kids start drinking coffee? Whatever, if you want it, there it is.”

“Mr. Stark said something about, uh, collar shopping?” Peter picked up the coffee and held it like he was going to drink it, leaning on the counter like _Yeah I drink coffee every day._

“Collar shopping? What? No.” Happy took a long draw from his own nearly empty coffee cup, and Peter put his to his lips.

He was saved by his phone ringing. He put the coffee down, reached for his phone, and then hesitated and looked at Happy as if waiting for permission.

“Go ahead,” said Happy, looking somehow amused. “Answer it.”

It was May. The dry mouth hit him, remembering his deadline, and he was fumbling for an excuse when she busted out with a “I can’t believe this! I’ve had two flights canceled in the last five hours. Two! They’re claiming it’s because of weather, you wouldn’t believe it, the sky’s hardly gray. But oh no, too risky for American Airlines-”

“Wait wait so, does that mean you’re not coming home Friday?” He looked up at Happy, who was tossing back the last drops of his coffee with a look of total non-surprise. “When will you be back?”

“Oh I don’t know, whenever I can get a ticket with some airline with balls... The refund process, too. Just incredible.” He could see her angry gesturing in his head clear as day. He looked wordlessly at Happy, pointed at the phone, and mouthed, _Did Mr. Stark…?_ May was still talking. “I’m sorry," she said. "How are things at home?”

There was a sound— a faint thumping sound from behind him. He turned, and there was the dog.

She was standing in the doorway staring at Happy. She still had that slightly glazed over look, but there was more clarity in her eyes than he had seen since they’d picked her up from the vet. She stood stock-still, staring the intruder down. Peter heard the very faint, very deep growl growing in the back of her throat.

“You’re eating more than just pizza, aren’t you? I made sure to put the veggie stir fry on top of everything else to make sure you ate something green-”

“Uh May I’m gonna have to call you back, sorry— yes, I ate the stir-fry!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so guess what motherfuckers, my dog is just fine, she's a+ and very happy, you know who's not? me. i just spent the entire weekend twitching and shaking uncontrollably because the pharmacy didn't refill my meds for a week and i ran out and went into withdrawal. i'm cursed. this fic is cursed. anyway


End file.
